


Linger

by queenoftrivia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (to like three weeks before), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Comeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Implied Sexual Content, Implied shower sex, John Talks Dirty, Lingerie, Lingerie!lock, M/M, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock Talks Dirty, Sherlock in Lingerie, Sherlock's neck, Smut, Top John, bottomlock, kind of, romantic bath, switchlock, that's more accurate, theyre both sentimental romantics i hate them, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenoftrivia/pseuds/queenoftrivia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to surprise John after a somewhat stressful day at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Linger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inevitably_johnlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitably_johnlocked/gifts).



> gifted to the wonderful inevitably-johnlocked because she loves lingerie!lock and so do i ;]  
> thank you to sandy (yorkiepug on tumblr) and my beautiful gf (who wishes to remain anonymous) for beta-ing this monstrosity lmao  
> enjoy!

Sherlock was still unable to truly understand  _ why _ John insisted on keeping a steady job. Even when Sherlock refused to be paid for his own work as a consulting detective, his clients would almost always insist on paying him surprisingly large sums of money. That was enough for two men who lived together. True, there were some times where the criminal classes appeared to be taking days off, but they were always able to manage to stretch their money out to accommodate.

Still, Sherlock was sometimes thankful for the days when John would spend his time away from Baker Street. It allotted him some time to conduct experiments that would have been impossible with John's presence. Today… well, today was a tad bit different.

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and rose from his faded black armchair exactly twelve minutes after John had left for the clinic. 

It was flu season, so John would have a stressfully monotonous day, meaning that after either a silly adventure chasing a criminal or two through London or an evening of reading the newspaper and watching "crap telly", John would want to have a bath. And after that, Sherlock decided, would be the perfect time to surprise John with a little… gift.

The idea had planted its seed mid-coitus, surprisingly enough. It had been after a chase; adrenaline had still been coursing through their veins, they had snatched each other's clothes off (a few buttons were lost, unfortunately; thank God that was Sherlock's one cheap button-down) and landed on the bed, and John had already come. Sherlock had not been far behind, but he had wanted to come  _ on _ John, not  _ in _ him, so he had pulled out (maybe a bit too quickly, not that either of them cared). No sooner than he had done that before John had taken Sherlock in his hand and began stroking him, quickly.

_ Sherlock felt his orgasm charging at him like a freight train. He heard the roar in his ears, felt himself shaking at the force that would soon crash into him, even felt his heartbeat as if it was the sound of the wheels grating on the tracks. Then, all at once, his senses let themselves function with perfect clarity as John pulled him down and murmured just under Sherlock's jaw, his voice hoarse from moaning, his breath impossibly warm against his neck. _

_ "God, you're beautiful, your skin is like milk, it's so soft and sexy," he said, tightening his grip on Sherlock's cock. "God, you'd look fantastic in thigh-highs and garters, look at you, so perfect. Come on, Sherlock. Come for me, that's it," he coaxed, and suddenly, for just a moment, everything stilled. _

_ Just as suddenly as he had stilled, Sherlock's senses clouded again and he thrust into John's hand once and an aborted, cracking moan wrenched itself from his throat as he spilled all over John's torso. His thighs quivered with the intensity of his orgasm, and he twisted himself to fall beside John, both of their chests heaving with an effort to calm their bodies down. _

_ When Sherlock turned to look at the love of his life, he found him pondering come on his fingers. _

_ "I found this on my neck." _

_ "Mine or yours?" _

_ "I think yours." _

_ "Mm. Wouldn't be surprised. Your comment helped quite a lot, I think." _

_ "What, about the garters?" John giggled breathlessly. That was Sherlock's favorite giggle. "Just a fancy, I suppose. Wouldn't be opposed to it, though." _

_ "Hm, I'll keep that in mind," he said, an indulgent grin playing on his face. John giggled again. _

And keep it in mind he did, for three whole weeks, whether he wanted to or not. The idea had turned into an annoying wad of freshly chewed gum on the bottom of Sherlock's shoe, so that whenever he wanted to go  _ anywhere _ in his Mind Palace, the memory of John's words would shove themselves back in Sherlock's train of thought. He had to scrape it off of his shoe and stick it to John's door (not that that helped much, because he was always thinking about John, but it helped enough).

The next three weeks were put to good use. Sherlock had done extensive research (all on an incognito tab on John's computer, because even though he doubted John would notice his search history, he never ceased to surprise him) and had managed to buy thigh-highs, garters, pants, and a robe, all without John noticing. When he tried them, they all fit perfectly.

Sherlock grinned at his purchases, all laid out for tonight. He could not wait to see John's face.

Before then, though, he had to buy a few more things for John's night: bath oil, some tea lights, maybe something else to wear. He sauntered out of his bedroom and twirled his Belstaff around himself, slipping his arms into the sleeves as if it was a second skin. He didn't need a scarf or gloves today.

His thumbs reached under his collar, about to turn it up, when he stopped short, halfway through the door.  _ Of course. _ Sherlock's lip twitched into a smirk for just a moment as he flipped the collar, letting his finger trace his neck.  _ John is going to love this. _

~

John's step on the stair was tense. A hot bath was certainly in store. Sherlock texted Lestrade to handle whatever situation might come up; after all, Lestrade was the best of the Scotland Yarders, and since it was flu season, the criminal classes had less of a chance of being too clever for him.

Tonight was all for John.

Before the doctor even had the chance to say hello, Sherlock was already up on his feet, putting the kettle on, getting a mug out, and opening the new container of John's favorite tea. He turned around to greet John with a quick kiss before discreetly taking a red rose to the bathroom. (He had bought the rose an hour ago on a whim for the express reason of putting its petals in the bathtub. He does love to be dramatic.)

Just before opening the door, he heard John settle himself in his armchair and open the paper. He allowed a smile to play on his face, and he turned the knob.

Four minutes later, the bath was ready. Sherlock took the rose from its place on the sink, removed the petals, and placed them gently in the now vanilla-scented water. He then took the plain tea lights out of the cabinet over the sink and distributed them sparingly around the whole room; one on each corner of the tub, one on each side of the sink, a few more on the lavatory. He lit them with the lighter and stood, observing his work.

Done.

He opened the bathroom door and exited, taking the rose stem and lighter with him. He found John reading a beat up novel (he just loved to be sentimental) on his armchair.

Sherlock plopped down on his own chair, his hand landing on his laptop beside him. He opened it up and pretended to do something important.

"Any cases?" John asked 57 seconds later.

"No," Sherlock replied. John hummed disappointedly. "Problem?"

"No, just don't want you shooting the wall again."

Sherlock was about to reply when John took a long, surprisingly loud sniff. "What is that?"

"Bath. For you. Knew it would be tough at the clinic today. Thought I'd treat you, so I went out and bought some essentials; vanilla oil, tea lights, the works." When Sherlock glanced up from his computer, he found John staring at him, one eyebrow quirked, a disbelieving smile growing on his face.

"Really?" John asked, his tone incredulous.

"See for yourself," Sherlock insisted, nodding in the direction of the hallway.

John earmarked his page and set the book  _ (The Hobbit, _ again) next to his now empty mug, stood, and made his way to the bathroom. Sherlock followed with his eyes until John opened the door and was barely able to suppress a grin at the humored smile that made itself known on John's features.

John burst out laughing. "Oh my God, you really went all out on this, didn't you?" he asked, his voice muffled through the wall. Sherlock closed his laptop and joined John in the bathroom.

"Well?" he asked. John whirled around, surprised.  _ Guess I'm quieter than I thought, _ Sherlock figured as John's face melted into amusement.

"Christ, don't do that," John breathed, his laughter bubbling up again. Sherlock beamed.

"Can't help it, really."

John gave him a look. "Yes, you can."

"Okay, maybe I can," Sherlock surrendered, his eyes rolling, his mouth grinning. Now they were both laughing.

It became calm again.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I like it. I love it. Thank you." John moved forward and kissed Sherlock, his hand reaching to the back of his neck, his index finger stroking the hair at his nape. Sherlock shivered and melted, his hands automatically going to John's buttons. The next time John spoke, his voice dropped a register and it spiked Sherlock's arousal. He willed his erection down, but only just. 

"Care to join me?" John murmured, rendering Sherlock's willpower useless. Sherlock pulled back, his hands still unbuttoning John's shirt.

"Mm, I would, but I have work to do," he said, pulling John's shirt out of his trousers.

"Aw, what?" John protested playfully, dragging out the vowels like a whining toddler. "Will I have to wank in here all by myself?"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock growled, and John's breathy giggle came back. Sherlock pushed his shirt off his shoulders.

"Oh, so you  _ will _ join me, then?" John asked as he felt Sherlock fumbling at his belt buckle.

"No. Like I said, I have work to do. And don't 'wank' either, as you so  _ eloquently _ put it." Sherlock knelt down as he pushed John's trousers and pants down in one go. He quickly stood up again.

John was pouting. Actually  _ pouting. _ Sherlock could not help but smirk again at the sight.

"Oh, come on, stop pouting, that's my job." John acquiesced, but still refused to look up. "I want you to relax tonight," Sherlock continued, his hands resting on John's bare shoulders, his voice softer this time. John looked up, took a deep breath, and sighed, content. A small smile played on his face.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Really. I needed this." John reached up and kissed him again.

"Hmm, I know," Sherlock smirked and pressed another kiss into John's lips before pulling back again.

"You sure we can't just do a quick one in here?" John asked playfully as he sank into the tub, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. He moaned gratefully when he settled fully, obviously trying to rile Sherlock up.

Thank God Sherlock had practiced controlling his bodily impulses for nearly his entire life.

"Trust me, you'll thank me later," Sherlock assured, winking. As he left, he turned off the bathroom light, left the hallway door slightly open, and went into his bedroom.

The low, flickering light shining through the bathroom door reminded Sherlock that he could  _ not _ turn on his own light, and also that he could not make too much noise, since John was right next door.

_ (Oh. That's a thought.) _

Sherlock padded quietly to where his outfit lay and indulged in a smirk, glancing to his left at the blurred, warm light. The glow played off the walls, and made his skin look golden.

He lazily undid the last few buttons on his shirt (he might thank John for undoing the first few later) and slid the sleeves off of his arms, letting the shirt fall on the floor as he flexed his muscles. When his fingers made their way to his trousers, he found his cock half hard, and he lowly chuckled. Just the thought of John made him like this. He should be used to it by this time, but then again, John never failed to delight his ever-racing mind. He pushed his trousers off without much finesse, the need to feel silk against skin suddenly urgent.

Now satisfyingly naked, Sherlock threw his clothes into his wardrobe to deal with later. His cock was much less satisfied, now standing proudly in the cool air, but Sherlock had promised himself to not touch himself before John did.

He sat on the bed and took the right stocking in his hands. As he stretched the silken fabric over his leg, the glow from the bathroom made the light pink sheerness of the leg look salmon. When the black lace of the opening reached mid-thigh, Sherlock let the stocking hug his leg, and ghosted his fingers across the lace. He noted that, despite the fact that light touches were numbed, what he could feel was spread across a larger area, and therefore heightened the feeling.

John would enjoy himself thoroughly.

He repeated his actions with his left leg, and by the time he was done, his cock was insistent. Sherlock refused it any attention, instead reaching for the next piece of lingerie: simple silk, rose-colored pants. He pulled them on, and shuddered when they rubbed against his erection. They exposed the top of his thighs perfectly.

Sherlock chuckled at himself as he reached for the black lace garter belt. He slipped it on around his legs and was careful not to let the lace brush against his now clothed cock, lest he get tempted to do something without John. He stood and carefully clipped the four straps to his stockings.

He took another piece off of his bedside table. John was always going on about Sherlock's gorgeous neck, so, last-minute, he had decided to buy a choker for one last accessory. It was perfect; black lace to stick with the theme, and a light pink ribbon weaved through the center. Right at the front, the ribbon tied into a bow, and a small silver charm with an obsidian stone rested just underneath. He fastened it so it would stay halfway up his neck, but would not actually  _ choke _ him.

When he walked to the mirror on his wardrobe and saw himself, he couldn't help but humor himself with a small smile. The garter belt covered the underwear almost completely, leaving only the bump where his balls rested underneath the rosy silk blank. The line of his cock was clearly visible right below the low waistbands of the pants and garter belt, and his legs were outlined perfectly by the soft pink stockings. The whole ensemble really left little to the imagination, but it was just taunting enough to allow John to enjoy himself peeling back the layers.

When he looked at his own face, he found his bottom lip between his teeth, and his cheeks flushed slightly. He had to admit, he was enjoying this  _ far _ more than he had previously anticipated.

He took the satin robe out of where it hung in the wardrobe (this, too, was rose colored, with a black lace trim at the hem and sleeves) and wrapped it around himself, letting its neck hang freely on his shoulders and expose his collarbones, tying its belt somewhat loosely at his waist. For all the lace, he felt surprisingly comfortable. Overstimulated, perhaps, (the fact that his cock was unrelentingly hard was not exactly helping,) but comfortable.

He was ready.

He quietly opened his bedroom door and left it open. He stepped softly (the silk stockings helped) to the bathroom and opened it, careful to keep his body behind the door.

Before he made any move to notify John of his presence, he treated himself to a long look at John's body. The rosy glow of the candles made his hair look like spun gold. His face was blissful and calm, years of stress somehow gone from his expression. Sherlock's eyes traveled down his arm, down to his graceful hands; the same hands that had acted as the hand of just death for many, the same hands that had saved the lives of so many more. 

Just behind that stood his dick. The fact that it was hard did not go unnoticed by Sherlock. In fact, his own cock was  _ very _ interested. He could have sworn that he felt it throb.

"John?" he called quietly. John did not jump, but his cock did.

"Hm?" John's voice was throaty and shockingly deep.  _ God, when did his voice get so sexy? _

"I'm in our bedroom."  _ That came out more shaky than anticipated. _

Even with the limited light, Sherlock saw the smirk flash across John's features. "Are you inviting me?"

"Why else would I interrupt you?" A beat of silence. "Don't answer that question." John laughed.

"Why don't you join me?" John asked.

"I have something to show you."

"And it's only in the bedroom, is it?"

"As I recall, our last attempt at having sex in the bathtub resulted in you getting soap up your arse. I think you prefer the bed."

"Alright, alright, you win, just let me sort out the bathroom," John resigned. Sherlock smirked and left, closing both doors as he went.

Just before he laid down on his bed, though, he quietly opened the glass door, leaving it half open. John did not see him.

The orange candlelight slowly dimmed as John blew out the tea lights, one by one. Eventually, the only lights left were London's lights and the bright moon through the curtains. (Waning moon. It was full last night, but cloudy. Not a cloud in the sky tonight.) 

As John had cleaned the bathroom, Sherlock had positioned himself in the center of his bed, his head on the pillows, his legs splayed out and relaxed. Now, Sherlock's hands were temporarily satisfying his craving for human touch. He closed his eyes, and he let his fingers grip at his own curls, trace around the choker (a sensitive spot was right underneath, and the lace would rub there every time he moved his head), rub at his collarbones, tease around his nipples through silk (those were saved for John, too), trail down his hips, trace strange, aimless patterns on his thighs, tease touches next to his cock until he was panting, his cock throbbing with need.

He heard John's breathing hitch to his right. He opened his eyes, and the moonlight outlined John leaning against the wall, his glorious cock in his hand, his body shining. Now, his hair looked silver.

"God, Sherlock, you're gorgeous," John moaned, his hand slowing. "I didn't want to steal the show," he teased, half of his mouth quirking up.

_ "John," _ Sherlock whined. He forced his hands away from his body, and they opted to grip at the white sheets underneath him. His bottom lip got caught in between his teeth, and he pleaded for John with his eyes.

He watched, unable to look away, as John slowly came closer. As soon as he was close enough, John let go of his cock and slowly trailed a finger up Sherlock’s covered leg. 

Sherlock willed himself to be still, but his left arm rose up and gripped the headboard, hard. His right hand stayed firmly fisted in the sheets, however hard it was to refrain from reaching out and stroking John’s cock. A bead of precome was at the tip, and the mere idea of having it in his mouth was enough for him to moan lightly.

John took hold of Sherlock’s calf and pushed it up so he could kneel between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s mouth fell open at the action, and his other arm reached behind to grip the headboard.

“You’re so gorgeous,” John whispered against the soft stocking as he delicately trailed his mouth up towards Sherlock’s cock, like it was a secret between them and them only. Sherlock was only barely able to keep his hips glued to the bed. His moans were soft whines, wordless pleas to John, ones that only he would understand.

John rose from Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock felt his legs relax. John undid the knot that held the robe in place and let the silk fall to his sides.

“So beautiful,” John murmured, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s thighs. He bent forward and slowly, deliberately licked up Sherlock’s body from the waistband of the garter belt to his choker. Sherlock’s breathing became almost labored. Then his mouth latched onto Sherlock’s nipple, and Sherlock’s hips bucked up of their own accord, his voice high with arousal.

“Oh, God, John,” Sherlock’s voice cracked out, his body swaying upward against John, the skin-on-skin contact almost too much to bear. The good doctor thankfully began lowering his target, kissing closer and closer to Sherlock’s cock.

John finally made it to the garter belt, and his hands deftly undid the clasps that held them to the stockings. He coaxed Sherlock’s hips off the bed and pulled it off, throwing it off to the side. He mouthed at Sherlock’s cock through the pink silk and had the  _ audacity _ to lick a stripe up the length of it at the same time as he allowed his hand to cup Sherlock’s balls through the fabric.

“God, fuck, John, touch me, lick me, fuck me, God, just  _ do something!”  _ Sherlock blurted, breathing heavily, his hands tightening their grip on the headboard, his legs rising up.

John inhaled. “I was waiting for that,” he admitted, before pushing the silk pants down and off of Sherlock.

Sherlock watched, enraptured, as John took the head of his cock in his mouth and licked the precome. His mouth fell open and a noise from deep within his gut came out, and he forced himself to not throw his head back in pleasure, because John looked fucking gorgeous on his cock.

John Watson was sucking his cock. Sometimes it still caught him unawares that none other than John Watson was the person who had chosen to spend the entire rest of their life with none other than he, Sherlock Holmes.

But now was no time to be sentimental, said John by suddenly taking Sherlock’s entire cock in his mouth and sucking -  _ hard. _

Sherlock cried out and threw his head back, his feet hooking together, one hand landing in John’s hair, the other trying to decide whether to grip the sheets or play with his torso. John decided for him; the doctor’s wonderful hands reached up and stroked Sherlock’s body, his fingers fitted themselves in between Sherlock’s ribs, his thumbs brushed across Sherlock’s nipples, all while sucking the life out of Sherlock’s throbbing cock. Sherlock used his other hand to grip his own hair, and  _ John, John, God, John _ was the only thing that came out of his mouth for a solid minute, when he wasn’t worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“John, if you keep -  _ John  _ \- if you keep doing that I’ll - fuck,  _ fuck _ John, I-” John slowly moved off of Sherlock’s cock, sucking the whole time, moaning lowly, sending vibrations up to Sherlock’s heart and right back down again. He disconnected with the most obscene popping noise Sherlock had ever heard, and he felt his cock throb for more.

“What do you want, love?” John asked against the base of his erection. Sherlock looked down and nearly came from the sight alone: his own cock, leaking on his stomach; John Watson, lips swollen, pupils dilated, hair disheveled. He moaned brokenly.

“I want - I want your fingers,” Sherlock answered breathlessly. He reached over to his bedside table and picked up the bottle of lube, passing it to John.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, calming his racing heart down as much as he could. His nerves felt as if they were sparking, and every movement seemed to translate into arousal. When he felt John's warm, lubed finger (from his right hand) press against his perineum, a long whine dragged itself from the back of his throat, and he pushed his head back into the pillows. He heard John laugh lightly, and he looked up. John's left hand ghosted up Sherlock's side, fingers tracing up his hip, tickling his ribs (just more teasing, really), stroking his nipple (Sherlock weakly cried out), touching the choker.

"That's right over a sensitive spot, isn't it?" John asked, licking his lips as he stroked his finger over the choker. Sherlock shivered, and another moan escaped his sinful lips, his eyes practically glazed over with lust.

_ "John, please," _ Sherlock pleaded, breathing hard, his body squirming of its own accord.

"Alright, alright, I've got you," John reassured, soothing Sherlock, stroking down his torso. Sherlock's voice broke; he was suddenly overcome with appreciation. He tried expressing it, but his mouth only hung open, useless.

John’s index finger slowly broached his entrance, opening it with the patience of a surgeon but the urgency of a soldier. John was filled with fascinating little contradictions like tha- _ aaah, fuck, stop thinking. _

John slowly moved his finger in and out, in and out, and before long, Sherlock was writhing, his arms scrambling for purchase, in his hair, in the sheets, at his torso. John bent down and licked another stripe up his cock, and Sherlock wondered how he had lasted this long.

Another finger. The light muscle burn only aided in bringing Sherlock closer to orgasm. He felt as if he was on fire; all of his senses were heightened, his touch, his hearing, probably everything else. He felt John take him in his mouth again and both felt and heard him moan around his head, and the thought that  _ he _ made John like this was  _ so much information, _ and it all went straight to his cock. His hips began rocking against John's fingers, he needed more, more, he was close, so  _ achingly _ close-

John curled his fingers and all was lost.

Sherlock's voice cried out something akin to John's name; it must have, anyway, because it was the only thing going through his head as he climaxed. His hips were bucking against John's fingers, he could  _ feel _ his come exiting, John's mouth never moved, he could feel John swallowing around his cock, he could feel his fingers brushing against his prostate, and it was fucking  _ exquisite. _

John only released his cock after he came down from his high, popping off with the same obscene noise he had made earlier. He slowly removed his fingers from Sherlock's arse and groaned at the sight of the stretched muscle closing back in. Sherlock moaned a little, too, which was definitely  _ not _ helping his cock.

"John," Sherlock managed through labored breaths.

"Sher-" John tried answering, but his voice seemed to betray him. (He did not touch himself.)

"Come on me."

John looked up. "What?"

"I want your come on me," Sherlock repeated, shifting until he sat on his feet. (The stocking material was soft against his bare bottom. He decided he liked it.) "Spread your legs and use my back for balance," he instructed.

"God, fuck, how are you so coherent?" John wondered as he did so, gripping Sherlock's shoulders (one was still covered by the robe, the other was bare, where the robe had slipped off). Sherlock wordlessly licked his palm and took John in his hand, his other hand resting on John's thigh.

Sherlock bent down as he began stroking John's cock, quickly. He opened his mouth and let his tongue flatten against the leaking head and winced at the taste of John's precome.

Not a second later, Sherlock's name and a warning were on John's lips, and Sherlock pulled back slightly, closing his eyes, tightening his grip on John's cock. 

John finally came, a noiseless, then breathless moan escaping his wide-open mouth. Sherlock continued stroking John's cock as he spurted shot after shot of come, gasping, and Sherlock felt some land on him.

When John finished, Sherlock leaned back and let John fall forward onto him, and his stomach ended up as John's temporary pillow. Soon enough, he felt John move, felt kisses being pressed into his pale skin as John languidly worked his way up to Sherlock's face. He moved back and observed Sherlock.

John swallowed, and Sherlock followed his Adam's apple go up, then down again. "God, you look delicious," they blurted at the same time. They burst out laughing, still panting, somewhat exhausted from their orgasms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a disgustingly happy grin still on his face. "I'm a mess, John," he protested.

"Yes, you are, and you manage to make it look fucking amazing, so shut up," John insisted, his own mouth still twisted into a smile, kissing him before he could reply. "Now let's get cleaned up before my come dries on those flawless cheekbones of yours," he said, tilting his head toward the still open bathroom door.

Sherlock gazed at John, adoration filling his heart without so much as a warning.

"I'm a fool, John," he realized. John furrowed his brow in confusion.

"How?"

"I was somehow unaware of your love." John's face softened and melted and he kissed Sherlock again, softly this time, caressing his head and neck with his hands, gently conveying his own adoration for Sherlock.

He pulled back only slightly, so that when he spoke, his lips still brushed against Sherlock's. "Can you see it now?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, John, more than that; I can feel it."

"I can, too."

(When they finally climbed into the shower, the smell of vanilla and rose petals still lingered on the walls and on John's skin.)

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally the longest _anything_ ive ever written so i hope you enjoyed ^v^
> 
> (also linger? more like _lingerIE_ AM I RIGHT UP TOP AYY)


End file.
